


lay him in his lover’s arms

by VeryImportantDemon



Series: Evolve [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Fluff and Angst, Gen, It’s really gay, M/M, Magic, Multi, Quentin and Eliot’s life, Sharing a Bed, Their life in Fillory, They have a child, angst with happy ending, bed sharing, just a little smut very small amount, sorta?, super gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: Unluckily, the key fell out. Eliot heaved a deep sigh, turning slightly towards Quentin. “Go time,” he said, shrugging. “Guess this leg of the quest is you and me.” He held his hand out to Quentin who took it and they stepped through the door together.





	lay him in his lover’s arms

-46-

The cottage was warm and comfortable and felt like home. Everything was shitty, everything was so shitty, but the cottage still felt like home. For some reason, that felt wrong to Eliot. Something should feel off about this place, but the only thing that felt weird was the fact that there were only two people in it. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “I know it’s all shitty right now-”

 

“But at least we’re doing whatever we can to fix it,” Quentin said with a deep sigh. He looks tired and disheveled, his hair pulled up into a small, messy bun. But he was still something gorgeous to Eliot. One of the things Eliot loved so much about Q was that no matter how discouraged he got, he always kept trying. Their task seemed daunting and impossible, but Quentin Coldwater was not going to give up. 

 

Eliot was lucky Quentin knew as much about Fillory as he did because even though Eliot had been the  _ actual High King _ he still didn’t know a lot of the mysteries and the histories the place held. Quentin had clung to the books, could practically recite every word from all five, but Eliot couldn’t. Quentin knew things about books that Eliot, a farm boy from Indiana, could never hope to know. Quentin’s yammering on about the book and ‘a hero’s journey’ went completely over his head. “Right, cute,” he said, “but where do we get the key?” 

 

The key was the important thing. The key could help them restore magic. The key could fill a hole that was missing in Eliot’s chest - one of many. Quentin flipped a book open, pointing to a cute pastel drawing, and chattering about the Mosaic. 

 

“It’s the Mosaic,” Quentin said, matter-of-factly, and Eliot pretended to understand what that meant. Of course, Quentin knew him too well for that to last too long. In fact, in barely lasted a full 15 seconds. 

 

“What’s the Mosaic?” he asked finally. He wasn’t completely stupid, he knew what  _ a  _ mosaic was. He just didn’t know what  _ the _ Mosaic was. 

 

“The Mosaic, the puzzle,” Quentin prompted. 

 

“Nope,” Eliot said, popping the ‘p’. His head was completely devoid of the ringing of the bells of recognition. 

 

“Are you kidding me?” Quentin heaved a sigh, appropriately irritated at Eliot’s ignorance. “You use the tiles to create a design that reflects the beauty of all life. You’ve never heard of this?”

 

“The beauty of all life,” Eliot repeated, almost laughing. The beauty of all life. “Sounds appropriately vague and impossible.” The language was very flowery and poetic. Why couldn’t things just be straight forward for once?

 

“So, what’s the prize?” he prompted. 

 

“A so-called key to greater magic,” Quentin said, and Eliot almost laughed. Maybe it made him a little dumb if this magical riddle had been under his nose the entire time he’d ruled Fillory. A key to greater magic could’ve solved a lot of problems. 

 

“Don’t you love it when the metaphors turn out to be literal?” Eliot said with a happy size, rising and starting across the room. “Let’s go.” He was so ready for something to do. Something to do to feel helpful and useful.

 

“El,” Q said, and the nickname stopped Eliot. “It’s in Fillory.” 

 

Eliot heaved a deep sigh. “Fuck,” he said.

 

-45-

 

The clock loomed in front of them, large and impossible. The lack of a keyhole was concerning, but Eliot finally felt smart because he knew how to fix it. He knew how to solve this part of the puzzle. “It’s chain-wound,” he said, and he had to suppress a smile at the look on Quentin’s face. “I took an elective in horomancy,” he offered by way of an explanation and he was proud he could contribute something.

 

But before his brilliance could be properly useful, a raspy voice croaked from behind them.  _ At castle. Getting married. _

 

Eliot whipped around, frowning at the rabbit sitting on the table. They were Fillorian. He knew because he’d used them. So it had to br from Margo. But it didn’t make sense. Getting married? “Does that sound like Margo?” he asked. Quentin didn’t have a decent answer either until the rabbit spoke again.

 

_ Need help now, dickwads.  _

 

The situation was serious, very serious, but Eliot couldn’t help but smile. “Definitely Bambi. Okay, we need to find a way to get there.” He couldn’t leave his best friend, soulmate, alone. Eliot turned the key over in his hands, frowning. “Do you think the key can create a portal to Fillory somehow?”

 

Luckily, it did. Inserting the key into the chain-wound clock popped open the doors and filled the room with the crisp, clean air of the outside. 

 

Unluckily, the key fell out. Eliot heaved a deep sigh, turning slightly towards Quentin. “Go time,” he said, shrugging. “Guess this leg of the quest is you and me.” He held his hand out to Quentin who took it and they stepped through the door together. 

 

-44-

 

Of course the door closed behind them. Of course it couldn’t have stayed open and made things so much easier for them. It was Quentin’s turn to sigh deeply as they entered the mess of trees. “Okay, well, I hope that was the right choice, 'cause the portal just closed,” he said irritably. 

 

But Eliot wasn’t thinking about the door closing. He couldn’t focus on the door because he could feel something. He could feel something in the air that wasn’t opium. His skin was tingling with it, every hair standing on end. The air was charged with it and it recharged Eliot, too. “Do you feel that?” he whispered in reverent awe. 

 

“Magic,” Quentin said, his eyes widening and Eliot knew he felt it, too.He pulled Quentin into a tight embrace, laughing like he hadn’t in so long. They were here, in Fillory, with magic. Magic was back! 

 

“Magic,” he agreed, squeezing Quentin tight to his chest. He felt like one of those holes in his chest had finally been filled with helium and he was floating, floating, floating. 

 

“Eliot,” Quentin said, frowning and pulling away. Eliot was unconsciously unwilling to break the contact, his hand still on Quentin’s shoulder until the younger man walked too far and it fell. 

 

“How is it back?” Eliot wondered, still too full of joy to realize that this was  _ wrong wrong wrong.  _

 

“It’s not back,” Quentin said quietly, pointing to the castle in the distance - the castle that was  _ Eliot’s.  _ Eliot stepped forward towards it, frowning deeply. It wasn’t the castle he knew. It was still being built. Which meant… 

 

“We’re in Fillory in the past,” Quentin said. 

 

Eliot’s face fell. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. “Ohhh, shit,” he whispered. Time travel. Margo was going to be  _ pissed.  _

 

-43-

 

They set off to find the Mosaic, picking their way through the forest. Quentin, early in their trek, had picked up a stick taller than him that served no purpose. “What the fuck, Q?” he asked, leaning back against a tree and watching as Quentin unearthed one end of the stick from where it was trapped under a felled tree trunk. 

 

Quentin shrugged. “It’s a walking stick,” he explained.

 

Eliot laughed, almost rolling his eyes. “I know that. The real question is why do you have it?”

 

Quentin shrugged again, starting off into the trees again with the stick as an aid. “It looks cool,” he said, and Eliot did smile at that.

 

-42-

 

Contemplating their predicament was making Eliot’s head hurt which was why he was sort of glad when Quentin started talking as they meandered through the forest. “So, in the Fillory books, Jane, um, she decides to try the Mosaic, right?” Quentin said. Eliot nodded, deciding to take Q’s word for it. He had only given the books a cursory glance in his older years. “Uh, but she's too late,” Quentin continued. “Someone had already solved it first.”

 

“Who?” Eliot asked. Frankly he was a little afraid of the answer. His head was hurting again. 

 

“Well, I don't know, but maybe it's us, and that's why we're here now. I don't know,” Quentin said. 

 

“Time travel only really makes sense to me when I'm on a good deal of peyote,” Eliot said, heaving a sigh. 

 

Time travel. Great. Why couldn’t this have been a simple ‘walk through the door, get the key’ kind of quest? Because nothing could ever be easy. 

 

-41-

 

It didn’t take too long to get to the Mosaic which Eliot was thankful for because he was not dressed for this kind of hiking around. There was a man crouched at the Mosaic, stacks of tiles surrounding him. “Hiya,” Eliot greeted, resting his weight on one foot and studying the man. 

 

He stood up angrily, flinging a tile to the ground where it clattered noisily. “It’s all yours if you don’t mind wasting your gods-damned time,” he snapped before stalking into the trees. 

 

“Huh,” Eliot said, tilting his head slightly. “Well, that bodes well for us.”

 

-40-

 

At least the tiles weren’t heavy. That was one of the only good things Eliot could think of about their current situation, stuck in past-Fillory and carting the damn things into piles while Quentin counted. The only other good thing he could come up with was Quentin. At least he wasn’t here alone. He could hear Quentin mumbling under his breath a few paces away. 

 

“All right, so 784 tiles in 15 colors. Uh, so that's 784 factorial… Divided by…”

 

Eliot straightened up, heaving a sigh. “Seriously?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “You're trying to calculate the beauty of all life?” Although he couldn’t deny it was kind of adorable watching Quentin work, his pencil fluttering across the paper, his hair in a bun, and his shoulders hunched in concentration. 

 

“Uh, well, I'm just trying to see what we're in for,” Quentin explained, squinting up at Eliot before looking back down at his paper and scratching in a couple more numbers. “There's a finite set of possible solutions, so…” 

 

Eliot waited patiently for a few beats until the end of Quentin’s pencil stopped moving. “Um,” he said. “That’s… A lot of zeroes.”

 

Of course it was. “How many zeroes?” Eliot asked, a little afraid of the answer. 

 

“Uh, to be exact?”

 

“Yeah.” Now he was really afraid of it. 

 

“A shitload,” Quentin said seriously and Eliot laughed. 

 

-39-

 

The Circumstances had been double, triple, quadruple checked. All of Quentin’s conjugations were flawless. But when he stood before the Mosaic with his hands outstretched and mumbling the magic words under his breath, nothing happened. Eliot had a sinking feeling he knew why. 

 

“Unless magic doesn’t work on this,” he offered. 

 

Quentin spun away from the Mosaic angrily, his hands curled into fists. “Great,” he snapped. “Brought back to a time when magic exists except on the one thing we need it to!”

 

Eliot stood up, across the sea of tiles from Quentin. He could tell he was getting angry and when Quentin got too angry to think, his magic got sloppy and ineffective. His brain got sloppy and ineffective. “Okay, okay. So what?” he said, trying to pacify the shorter man. “We do it the old fashioned way! We’re smart. We can do hard things.” They’d done hard things before. They had made it to Fillory in the first place. They’d become kings. They’d stopped the Beast. “We have to show the beauty of all life.” 

 

Even as he spoke he knew how impossible it sounded. The beauty of all life in 784 tiles. They didn’t even know what the beauty of all life  _ was. _

 

“The beauty of all life?” Quentin snapped. “What does that mean, and how are we supposed to show it with tiles?”

 

Eliot resisted the urge to snap back but his temper was starting to get a little frayed too. “We're not gonna show it with fucking math, Quentin!” 

 

“This is the stupidest puzzle!” Quentin shouted, spinning away from the tiles. 

 

“No, no, no,” Eliot said, his hands out and open in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. “This is our quest. We have to do it ourselves.” Just he and Quentin. They were smart. They could do it. He knew they could. “I'm not saying that it's not going to take a while. Logic this with me for one second, okay? Hmm?” Quentin liked logic and he liked Fillory. That was the way to his heart. “Jane came along too late, right? Someone came to the Mosaic and solved it before she even got here gets here will get here. You tried to convince me that someone was us. Hmm?”

 

“Yeah, but I didn't think that it was gonna take a decade,” Quentin said, shaking his head slightly. He was deflating and Eliot almost smiled. He knew Quentin’s weak spots.

 

“Well, in the absence of a better option, let's let's at least try, huh?” he said soothingly. He crossed the seemingly endless expanse of the tiles and brought Quentin into a hug. “Come on. We can do this, Q. You and me.”

 

“You and me,” Quentin echoed. “You and me.”

 

-38-

 

“Q,” Eliot said. The sun had gone down a long time again, their workspace lit only by balls of light he and Quentin had conjured, hovering above them. “Maybe we should call it a day.” 

 

Quentin sighed deeply, dropping to the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him. Eliot’s gaze travelled from Quentin to the little cottage just behind the Mosaic that the man had vacated when they arrived. “Guess this is ours now,” he said. 

 

“Hopefully not for too long,” Quentin said. He gathered his feet underneath him, standing and following Eliot to the door. 

 

Eliot pushed the door open, gesturing with his right arm for Quentin to enter. “Mi casa es su casa, Q.” 

 

Quentin shook his head slightly, laughing and entering the room. The cottage was small, one large living area. There was a kitchen off one side, a bedroom off to the other, and an outhouse around the back. They stood in the doorway to the bedroom for a few moments, Quentin breaking the silence. 

 

“So, um… Guess I’ll take the couch, then?” he said. 

 

Eliot snorted, clapping Quentin on the back before striding to the bed and throwing himself down on it. “Quentin, we’ve fucked before. We can share a bed.” 

 

-37-

 

“You know, you're not going to get very far if you're this frustrated after 14 days,” Eliot said. Quentin had gotten angry again at their lack of progress, but who wouldn’t? They were stuck at what seemed like an impossible task and the tedium of it was enough to drive just about anyone crazy. 

 

“How are you not?” Quentin said irritably, turning back to face Eliot. 

 

“Oh, Q,” Eliot said with a relaxed sigh. “You know the answer.” He held out his canteen to Quentin. But he wasn’t being entirely truthfully. With the chaos of, well, their entire lives lately, Eliot was enjoying this leg of the quest. It was nice, quiet, and he was alone with Quentin. Of course, he’d never say that out loud.

 

-36-

 

“Can you imagine Margo putting up with this tedium?” Eliot asked one day. It had been just over a month and as frustrating as their task was, Eliot was still sort of enjoying himself. It was dull work but they weren’t being attacked or assassinated or possessed. They were just… Here. Together, sprawled out on their backs on top of their most recent attempt at the Mosaic, watching the Fillorian sun drift across the sky.

 

“No, not even a little,” Quentin said and Eliot smiled fondly. 

 

“She’d have blown it up day two,” he declared. As peaceful as this was, as much as he was enjoying being back in Fillory with magic coursing through his veins and Quentin at his side, he missed Margo. In the entire time they’d known each other, he didn’t think they’d ever been apart this long. She was his best friend, his soulmate. His Bambi. 

 

He missed her. 

 

-35-

 

Sometimes it was just fun to mess with Quentin. Eliot had known this since the younger magician had arrived at Brakebills and he hadn’t forgotten it in the almost 8 months since they’d been working on the Mosaic. “What is that, anyway?” he asked. 

 

Quentin leaned back, sighing exasperatedly. He was usually exasperated when it came to Eliot. “You know, not everything has to look like something, Eliot.”

 

“Ah, it's the eternal argument,” Eliot said, although he was sure maybe 6 people, ever, in any world, had ever had this argument. “Realism versus abstract expressionism…” 

 

Abandoning his post with his feet propped up on one of the tables they’d dragged outside from their cottage, Eliot climbed on top of their tall chair, snatching Quentin’s walking stick on the way. He settled down, looking much like he had when he was a king on his throne. “Green,” he told Quentin, gesturing wildly with the stick. “No, not there. There. Yeah, green. No, there.” It was entertaining watching Quentin scramble every time he told him to move the green tile. He leaned back, laughing.

 

Q whirled around, brandishing the very same green tile. “You know what, El? I’ll tell you where I’ll put this.”

 

Eliot couldn’t help but grin at that. It was just too adorable. How could he not? “Yeah? Come at me, Coldwater,” he teased, half-hoping he would. He hadn’t gotten laid in a very long time. Quentin opened his mouth again to speak but there was a voice from behind them - a female voice he hadn’t heard before. 

 

“Peaches? Plums?” she asked, tossing a peach to Quentin. Quentin blinked in surprise, holding the front. “Arielle,” the woman introduced. 

 

_ Oh, Q, you useless bisexual,  _ Eliot thought from his perch. “I’m Eliot,” he called down. “This is my friend, Quentin.” 

 

“Hi, there,” Arielle said. Quentin blushed a little, looking up at her while still holding the peach in his hands. 

 

“Hi,” Quentin said, the faintest smile on his face.

 

Of course Quentin had a crush on the pleasant peach farmer that he’d just met, Eliot thought selfishly, but he filed that away. Maybe they’d be out of here soon enough and he could go back to repressing his emotions in the real world. He was almost a little glad when the woman had a boyfriend.

 

-34-

 

The mattress shifted, squeaking slightly, when a weight sat down on it. Eliot blinked slowly, roused from his light sleep. He peeked out from under the blankets, his dark hair a mess of curls. “Q?” he asked. 

 

“Who else?” said Quentin. He slid under the blankets, pressing close to Eliot’s chest. It had become their normal, sleeping together, and Eliot wouldn’t change it for anything. 

 

“I wanna be the little spoon tonight,” Eliot whispered sleepily, turning over towards the wall and pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. 

 

“Whatever, El,” Quentin said, settling in with one arm draped over Eliot’s waist, who was already asleep again. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve seen the smile on Quentin’s face. 

 

-33-

 

The weirdest thing about the stars was that they were so much like Earth’s, Eliot thought. He and Quentin had brought one of their blankets out to the Mosaic and laid it out, sitting on it together and drinking and watching the stars. 

 

“Kinda reminds me of Indiana,” Eliot remarked, taking a sip of his drink. 

 

Quentin frowned, turning his head slightly. “Indiana? You grew up in Indiana?”

 

Eliot laughed, shaking his head slightly. “Hard to believe, I know,” he said. He felt a pang in his heart, remembering the two other times he’d had this conversation. With Margo and with Mike. “We could see all the stars from the farm.”

 

Quentin laughed a little. “I can’t picture you on a farm,” he said. “In New York, we couldn’t see anything. Too many lights, too much pollution.” 

 

Eliot sighed softly, leaning back on the hand not holding his drink and looking up at the stars again before looking at Quentin. “They’re beautiful,” Quentin said. 

 

“Yeah,” Eliot agreed, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. 

 

He let the silence stretch for a few beats before he lifted his glass in Q’s direction. “Happy anniversary, Q,” he said. “To our first and last year at this thing.”

 

Q smiled, tilting his glass towards Eliot before they both drank. Eliot was just thinking that he was almost out when he noticed Quentin staring at him. “Hey,” Quentin said, effectively getting his attention. He was about to fire off something along the lines of  _ like what you see  _ but before he could, Quentin had leaned forward and pressed his lips to Eliot’s. 

 

Eliot’s eyes widened slightly. Quentin was kissing him. Quentin was sober and he was actually kissing Eliot. The only thought running through his brain which hadn’t restarted until Quentin pulled away was that he wanted to kiss him again. “Hey,” he whispered and moved forward again. Quentin was warm, impossibly warm and  _ gods,  _ Eliot had wanted to kiss him the entire time they’d been here. 

 

They pulled apart again, locking eyes once more. Eliot smiled, almost laughed, and reached forward again, punch-drunk from Quentin’s lips. He buried his fingers in Quentin’s hair, his drink forgotten in the heat of the moment. Quentin was kissing him back again but his fingers were fumbling somewhere else and Eliot could feel the buttons on his waistcoat loosening. 

 

“Hey, Q,” he whispered, pulling back and putting a hand on Quentin’s, stopping him. 

 

“Do you not want to?” Quentin asked, his eyes drinking in every facet and every detail of Eliot’s face. 

 

“No, I do,” he said. “I really, really do. I don’t think you realize how much I do. I just…” He trailed off for a few beats because he gathered his words. “I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

 

Quentin leaned forward again, pulling Eliot’s waistcoat off his shoulder and whispering into his neck, “I didn’t regret it the first time.”

 

It was all Eliot needed to lurch into action. His waistcoat was soon abandoned, his shirt following as he pulled it over his head. Quentin wasted no time, kissing Eliot deeply again, his hands wandering lower and lower. His mouth did, too, and there was soon a nice hickey just above Eliot’s collarbone. “My turn,” Eliot whispered. 

 

He was too good at this to take too long, pulling Quentin’s shirt off and discarding it. Anything that wasn’t him and Quentin didn’t exist in that moment. He stood up, taking Quentin with him. He had to lean down to reach, kissing his lips and his neck, one hand cupping the back of his neck, while he worked off his pants and his underwear. “Hurry up,” he said impatiently while Quentin stood in front of him, pulling off his own pants. 

 

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Quentin insisted, but it wasn’t fast enough for Eliot. As soon as Quentin’s pants cleared his ankles, Eliot surged forward again. He pulled Quentin against him, bare skin to bare skin, and it felt like Eliot imagined heaven might. He turned towards the cottage, one arm around Quentin’s wasit, but Q stopped him. 

 

“No,” he said. “Here, please.” 

 

Eliot laughed a little, sinking to his knees on top of the Mosaic. “You’re eager,” he teased, his hand wrapped in one of Quentin’s. 

 

“Of course,” Quentin said. “For you, always.” 

 

“Come on, then,” he said, pulling Quentin down.

 

Their mouths were hardly a few centimeters apart the entire time. Eliot took the younger magician in his arms, lowering him to the ground on top of the blanket. “You okay?” he whispered.

 

“Perfect,” Quentin whispered back. “Don’t leave me here all day.”

 

Eliot and Quentin kissed and pressed closer against each other and moaned and Quentin screamed Eliot’s name. “Fuck,” he cried. “Fuck, El, fuck! Eliot, Eliot…” 

 

Eliot had never felt more beautiful. 

 

-32-

 

Eliot woke up the next morning on top of the Mosaic, sweating and slightly sticky but buzzing all the same. He felt like he had when they stepped through the portal a year ago, like when he felt magic pumping through his veins again. He also found that Quentin was already wake, sprawled out on the Mosaic next to him and watching the clouds. “I can’t believe we did that,” he said, sighing contently. They had gone at it long enough that they had fallen asleep right where they stopped. 

 

“Neither can I,” Eliot said. “We should probably get washed up.”

 

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed but neither of them moved for a few extended moments. “Fuck, I don’t want to,” Quentin said. 

 

Eliot laughed, forcing himself into a sitting position. “Sucks for you,” he said. “Up. Let’s go to the spring.” 

 

Quentin groaned, sitting up and clambering into a standing position. “Jesus, my back hurts,” he said. 

 

“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t sleep on the Mosaic next time,” Eliot offered, rising and twisting to pop his back. Quentin watched him, smiling faintly.

 

“Next time,” he said. 

 

“Yeah. You think I wouldn’t want a repeat of that?” Eliot asked with his eyebrow raised. Gathering up his clothes, Eliot wandered past a bewildered looking Quentin. “We’re wasting daylight, Q. Let’s go. The spring’s still warm this time of day.”

 

Quentin’s smile mirrored Eliot’s as they picked through the forest naked. “This is like some proper Adam and Eve shit,” Eliot said with a laugh. 

 

Quentin snorted. “Adam and Steve,” he corrected. After a beat, though, he added, “Or Adam and Eliot.” 

 

-31-

 

It had been a few hours since their bath and they’d just finished another Mosaic when Quentin opened his mouth. Eliot knew the signs of Quentin overthinking and he’d been overthinking all day. “Let’s just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?” he suggested with a faint smile. 

 

Quentin smiled, too, and Eliot allowed himself a moment to think that maybe everything would be alright.

 

-30-

 

“Guess what I got?” Quentin declared as he emerged from the trees, walking stick in hand. He still had the thing he’d found their first day here. 

 

“If that’s a talking animal,” Eliot said without turning from the Mosaic, “I’m divorcing you, Q.” 

 

“It’s not,” Quentin said with a laugh, kneeling beside Eliot. He opened the pouch at his hip and Eliot almost laughed when he saw what it was. 

 

“Peyote,” he said. “I didn’t know it grew here.”

 

“Found it in the forest,” Quentin said. “Maybe now time travel will make sense.”

 

-29-

 

Eliot saw the way Quentin looked at Arielle when she came by every few days with peaches and plums. He looked at her like he wanted her, too.

 

Eliot didn’t care that much. He understood Quentin wanting something that Eliot couldn’t provide. This was an extraordinary circumstance and all. They shared a bed and they kissed and they fucked, but they weren’t dating. They weren’t boyfriends. Eliot didn’t really know what they were. What he didn’t appreciate was Quentin pulling away. 

 

He acted more distant. He was less affectionate and touchy than he used to be and he wouldn’t talk. Of course, Eliot couldn’t fault him too much. He was chronically constipated when it came to talking about his feelings. But this was something different. This hurt because he might actually love someone who was drifting away. So he should be forgiven for snapping a little. 

 

“We can't just throw away all this time we've invested. You want to live your life, live it here,” he said angrily, throwing down a tile and stalking away. 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quentin said, a little angry too. 

 

“You know exactly what it means,” Eliot said, balling his fists. “I’m going out,” he said finally. “I’ll be back later.” 

 

Unceremoniously, he marched into the forest.

 

-28-

 

Eliot liked Quentin - maybe even loved him. But he was a little lonely, too. He missed Margo. God, how he missed Margo. “Fucking miss you, bitch,” he said to the air, stalling and leaning against a tree. “I need to talk to you. Boy problems.” 

 

He could practically see her next to him, rolling her eyes and placing a perfectly manicured hand on her hip. She’d chastise him about his crush but then threaten to end Quentin’s entire existence if he hurt Eliot in any way, shape, or form. She would encourage Eliot to do what would make him happy. 

 

Eliot stiffened instantly when he heard a rustle in the trees. Hardly anyone lived as far out as he and Quentin did, save for Arielle and her peach and plum farm. He didn’t think there was anyone hostile. His hands moved without even thinking, whispering almost-forgotten battle magic. His hands tingled and sparked until the creator of the noise stepped into the sunlight shining between the trees. It was a deer.

 

Eliot’s hands fell to his sides and he smiled sadly. “Bambi,” he said softly, almost laughing. And then he did laugh. Of course it was a deer and a doe at that. He laughed, sliding down the trunk of the tree until he was at the ground and then he cried. 

 

-27-

 

When Eliot finally returned, his eyes were dry and not even red. He looked like nothing had happened at all. Quentin was bent over another completed trial that didn’t appear to have worked. “I’ll write it down,” Eliot said, sweeping over to the table with their pastels and paper, all of their previous attempts. 

 

Quentin noticed him and smiled and they still climbed into bed together at the end of the day.

 

-26-

 

Eliot has become so used to Arielle’s arrivals and departures that he didn’t even look up from where he was coloring squares as Quentin placed them from a kneeling position on the Mosaic. He didn’t look up when Quentin said, “No Lunk today?” and Arielle replied with “Found him holding someone else’s peaches” and Quentin, ever the gentleman, stammered “Well, I always thought you were too good for him, anyway” and he didn’t look up when Quentin smiled shyly at her and Arielle handed him a peach.

 

-25-

 

Quentin and Arielle walked together, ducking underneath the laundry line, laughing as Quentin juggled peaches and plums. Eliot swallowed hard and turned back to the Mosaic. Jesus, maybe he did love Quentin. 

 

He liked Arielle a lot. She was sweet and funny and optimistic, a balancing influence on the harsh edge of Eliot’s sarcasm. Eliot just didn’t like that she was changing things. He’d gotten used to the way thing were and now Quentin was in love with someone else. He didn’t care too much that Quentin liked her - Eliot had been in love with more than one person at once himself - but the pang of fear in his chest was that Quentin would decide that now that he had Arielle, he didn’t need Eliot anymore. 

 

So, he didn’t look when they kissed. 

 

-24-

 

Eliot was outside next to their magically produced fire, warming his hands and thinking in the dark when Quentin emerged from their cottage. “It’s late,” he said sleepily, startling Eliot. 

 

“Jesus, Q,” Eliot said. “Warn me next time…” He wrung his hands before parting them and holding them over the flames. 

 

“It’s late,” Q repeated. “Come to bed.” 

 

Eliot shook his head, sighing. “You know what they say. Three’s a crowd.” Arielle was over. She and Quentin had slept together and she was sleeping in their bed and, like he’d predicted, Eliot had been haplessly discarded. 

 

“El…” Quentin sighed softly, crossing the dirt in bare feet to sit next to Eliot. “I’m sorry, El,” he said quietly. “I love you. I do. I just…” 

 

“You love her, too,” Eliot said. “I get it. A lot of magicians are free love. If you want to be with her, too, that’s fine. I just…” He trailed off, staring into the fire. Distracted, he twisted his hands and fingers whispering in Slavic. The fire bent and molded to his will, two stallions made of embers galloping together until they faded. 

 

“I love you and I’ve been thrown away too many times,” Eliot said softly, his voice cracking and tears pricking at his eyes. He angrily wiped them away, sniffling. Quentin leaned against him, wrapping an arm around Eliot’s shoulders. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. I am. I never meant for you to feel like that. It’s you and me, El.” Quentin reached over, his fingertips on Eliot’s cheek and gently steering Eliot’s gaze towards him. “I love you. It’s you and me, and I’ll never throw you away.” 

 

Quentin leaned forward, gently pressing his forehead to Eliot’s. Eliot let his eyes flutter shut, letting out a soft puff of air. Everything felt right again. 

 

Eliot didn’t open his eyes again until he felt Quentin pull away. “Come to bed,” Quentin said seriously, and Eliot went.

 

-23-

 

Eliot was grilling their lunch - because duck tasted much better when prepared by hand instead of with magic - when he heard Arielle come up behind him. Eliot shifted the meat on the coals before turning to face her. He didn’t even have to think about what he was going to say because she did. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “If I overstepped, I’m sorry. It was never my intention. You’re my best friend, you and Quentin, and… And I love you both. I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home.” 

 

Eliot smiled faintly, leaning back on his heels. “Water under the bridge, Ari,” He said. He really did like her and he was very thankful there was no more hard feelings or competition between them. “Bring it in.” 

 

Arielle smiled brightly, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. “Oof,” Eliot said as she hugged all the air from his lungs, squeezing her back. “You’re stronger than you look.”

 

-22-

 

The days that Eliot woke up sandwiched between Arielle and Quentin were the best days.

 

-21-

 

Eliot didn’t know how he felt about children, to be honest. He didn’t have any siblings and he was never really exposed to small children. Sure, he had one, but he didn’t really get the chance to raise her. But he didn’t imagine that he had much of a choice now. Arielle was pregnant. They were going to have a baby. 

 

“Did Q tell you what we want to call him?” Arielle asked one day. She was sitting at their work table, stitching up one of Eliot’s shirts while he and Quentin arranged tiles. Well, Eliot arranged tiles and Quentin paced around the outside of the Mosaic and tried to decide where the colors should go. 

 

“No,” Eliot said. “Didn’t think you’d decided.”

 

Arielle smiled brightly while she pulled another stitch through the hole in Eliot’s shirt. “Ted for his father,” she said, nodding at Quentin who was muttering something like,  _ red, green… blue… green?  _ under his breath. “And Eliot,” she finished.

 

“Cute name,” Eliot said instinctively. The name had to be adorable because two of the most adorable people he knew picked it out. He dropped a green tile when Arielle’s words sunk in, spinning around. “Eliot,” he repeated. “We’re calling him Ted Eliot Coldwater?” 

 

Arielle nodded, that adorable smile still on her face. Eliot laughed, abandoning the tiles and pulling Arielle into a tight hug. When he finally pulled back, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

 

Quentin paused on the other side of the Mosaic, frowning at the pair. “What happened?” he asked. 

 

“We’re having a baby,” Eliot said with a happy sigh, “and his name is Ted Eliot.”

 

-20-

 

Neither Quentin nor Eliot knew much about giving birth. So when Ted finally decided to arrive, they were both very much out of their element. Luckily Arielle had more experience than both of them. She had assisted in the delivery of a few of her own siblings, nieces, and nephews, so she was in good hands. They were just her own.

 

Ted was a few days early and the labor was relatively easy. He was born with hardly a struggle and was nestled against Arielle’s chest. Eliot couldn’t help but smile at the scene. It was soft and pure and  _ good.  _ He didn’t think he’d ever be privy to something this good. 

 

“Q,” Arielle said softly, her arms wrapped around the tiny baby - he was  _ so  _ tiny, was it even possible for human beings to be that small? - as she held him up slightly. 

 

Quentin didn’t speak, taking the child into his arms with reverence. His eyes were filled with awe and Quentin looked younger and happier than Eliot had seen him in a long time. Maybe forever. He looked like the Beast had never happened, like they had never lost magic. It made Eliot soften, too, just watching Quentin hold their child close. He could’ve stood there and watched him for hours but he was so grateful he didn’t get the chance. 

 

“El,” Quentin said quietly. There was something about the moment that seemed hushed. “Do you want to hold him?”

 

Eliot shook his head, but really, he wanted to so badly. “I don’t…” He glanced over at Arielle, tired but smiling. “Can I?”

 

“Of course,” Arielle said. “He’s just as much yours as ours, El.” 

 

Eliot beamed, wider than he thought he ever could, gently taking the baby into his arms. “Hey, little man,” he whispered, gently rocking the child. “Hey, Ted. I’m Eliot. It’s very nice to meet you.”

 

-19-

 

“El?” 

 

Eliot laid the knife down next to the vegetables he was chopping up, turning towards the feminine voice. “Yeah?” 

 

Arielle shifted slightly, holding out the baby towards Eliot. “Can you watch him for a moment? I need to help Quentin get the rest of the green beans in so we can put them in the soup.” 

 

“Course, Ari,” Eliot said with a wry smile. “Come to Papa, little man,” he said, addressing the baby as he took him from Arielle. He peppered him with kisses bouncing him up and down. “Who’s Papa’s favorite?” he asked. “Who’s Papa’s favorite? You are. You are the best kid in the whole fucking world.” Eliot bounced him a little again, pretending to throw him into the air but his grip never anything less than solid. 

 

Ted giggled again, that adorable baby laugh, and cried out, “Papa, Papa! Papa!” 

 

Eliot froze instantly and Arielle Who was crossing to the door of the cottage did, too. “Holy shit,” Eliot whispered, locking eyes with Arielle. “Did he just-“ 

 

To punctuate his point, Ted giggled again, tugging on Eliot’s long, curly hair and crying out, “Papa! Papa!” 

 

Eliot beamed again, holding the baby tight to his chest while Arielle threw the cottage door open. But he couldn’t hear when she called out to Quentin, “Ted’s talking!” 

 

He couldn’t hear the basket of green beans hitting the ground or Quentin smacking into the laundry line. He couldn’t hear Quentin hurrying back to the house saying, “What did he say?”

 

He couldn’t hear the pair kissing as Quentin spun her around and then Arielle saying breathlessly, “He called El Papa.”

 

All he could hear was Ted.

 

-18-

 

The door of the cottage creaked open and Eliot leaned back on his heels as he looked up. Arielle stood in the doorway, Ted balanced on her hip. “Daddy! Papa!” he cried happily. Arielle laughed, gently lowering him to the ground. 

 

Eliot beamed, still not really used to be called Papa. But every time Ted called for him, it felt right. 

 

“Come here, Ted,” Quentin said with a laugh, rising from his kneeling position to make a grab for Ted. The boy immediately started the game, squealing and slipping out of Quentin’s outstretched hands. Quentin laughed, following Ted as he took off towards Eliot. 

 

“Papa!” he called. Eliot rose to his feet, scooping up the boy and again pretending to toss him into the air, much like he had done when Ted was much smaller. 

 

“Don’t worry, Ted,” Eliot said with a laugh. “I’ll protect you!” 

 

Ted laughed again as Eliot spun him around. Everything was peaceful and calm and  _ happy  _ and Eliot had never loved his life more. 

 

-17-

 

Until Arielle got sick. It started slow, just a cough and a tight chest and the slightest fever. But then it picked up steam, tearing her apart. As much as Quentin and Eliot cared about the Mosaic, they put it aside. They needed to fix her. 

 

They knew magic, but magic wasn’t helping. They weren’t healers, they didn’t have the vast libraries of Brakebills at their disposal. Quentin was outside with Ted, picking herbs from the gardens around their cottage for another attempt at a remedy. Their son wasn’t in the house much because they didn’t want him getting sick, too. Eliot was by Arielle’s bed, his own curly locks flattened and damp. He was exhausted too, dark circles under his eyes. Arielle’s sickness had taken a lot out of all of them. 

 

Arielle stirred slightly, blinking up at Eliot with fever-bright eyes and red cheeks. “El,” she whispered hoarsely. 

 

Eliot immediately leaned forward, taking her hand in his. “Yeah?” he asked softly. “Do you need something?” 

 

She shook her head, squeezing his hand gently. “I know we… We didn’t start off well…” 

 

Eliot swallowed hard, squeezing her hand. “No,” he said. He wasn’t that person anymore, afraid of being left behind. He loved Quentin, but he loved Arielle, too. “Don’t talk like that, Ari,” he said. “Don’t fucking talk like that.” She sounded like she was making amends because she was dying. Eliot didn’t want to think about Arielle dying. She was a part of them now, a part of their journey in Fillory. She was a part he didn’t want to lose.

 

“Be safe,” she said softly, squeezing his hand gently. “I love you.” The  _ and Quentin, and Ted  _ went unsaid but completely understood. She reached up, her other hand trembling slightly, and cupped Eliot’s cheek. “You’re… You’re sweet as peaches and plums.” 

 

-16-

 

Between the two of them, Quentin and Eliot had lost so, so many people. They’d lost their entire previous lives most recently. But losing Arielle in Fillory was something different. 

 

They both knew plenty of spells that would dig her grave in seconds, but it was something they wanted to do themselves. Eliot wanted to feel the wood scraping against his palms. He wanted to feel the strain in his back as he heaved another shovelful of dirt out of the hole. He wanted to keep feeling, so he kept digging, and he knew Quentin felt the same.

 

-15-

 

Eliot stepped out of the oddly silent cottage, their newly-washed and folded laundry neatly put away. He needed to keep his hands busy with something - laundry, the Mosaic, tending the garden… He didn’t need to get drunk or high when Quentin was so vulnerable, when they had a child to look after. Their child. So he kept moving. He moved until he stepped out of the cottage and saw Quentin, his shoulders hunched, sitting on top of a quilt that Arielle had made them. 

 

He didn’t even need to tell his feet where to go. He was already moving towards Quentin, sinking beside him and draping an arm around his shoulders. He pulled Quentin close to his side as the younger man began to sob. Eliot wrapped his other arm around Quentin to comfort him, but a little selfishly, too. He needed to hear Quentin’s heartbeat. He needed to know he wasn’t going to be left alone. 

 

“Ted,” he said softly, Quentin’s head tucked under his chin. “Ted, come here, baby.” 

 

Obligingly, the boy set his pastels down, pattering silently over to his fathers. He climbed into Quentin’s lap and held him, too. Arielle was gone but they were still here. 

 

-14-

 

The flowers were starting to grow over Arielle when Eliot saw Quentin curled next to Ted just outside the cottage. They were under one of Arielle’s quilts but there was another one folded next to them. He picked it up, shaking it out and draping it over Quentin and Ted. He hesitated beside them for a beat before he leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to their foreheads before turning back to the Mosaic, sinking back into his work. 

 

He had completed a whole other attempt as was working on writing it down when Eliot heard the slightest shuffle of movement behind him. The sun was going down and Quentin, sitting up with the quilt falling around his waist, was barely framed against the trees. “El?” he said.

 

Eliot turned around slightly, writing absentmindedly. “How long have you been up?” he asked. 

 

Quentin shrugged. “A while, I think. I was just watching you.” 

 

Eliot smiled, standing up and crossing over to where Quentin was sitting and Ted was still fast asleep. “He’s not gonna sleep tonight,” Eliot remarked, leaning down to give Quentin a kiss. 

 

“I know,” Quentin said with a soft sigh. “Lay down with me?” 

 

Eliot could never deny Quentin a request, especially one he wanted, too. He climbed under the quilt carefully, not wanting to wake their son. He shifted down until he was low enough to lay his head on Quentin’s chest while the other man ran his fingers through Eliot’s hair. They relaxed in companionable silence until Quentin spoke. 

 

“Did you ever think our lives were going to end up like this?” he asked. 

 

Eliot smiled faintly and shook his head. “Fuck no,” he admitted. “Of course not. This is crazy. Me and you living in a cottage, full-on domestic, with a son, in the land of your favorite kids’ books… It’s crazy.” He paused for a beat before adding, “But… Good crazy. I’m glad I’m with you.”

 

“Me, too, El,” Quentin whispered. “Me, too.”

 

-13-

 

“We need to write a letter,” Quentin said one day. Eliot was sitting at their outside table, teaching Ted the perfect way to peel peaches - with magic. 

 

“A letter?” Eliot asked, frowning slightly. 

 

Ted looked up from where he was concentrating very hard on his peach, his smaller fingers clumsily attempting the maneuvers. “Who are you writing to?” he asked curiously. 

 

“Your auntie Margo,” Quentin said, crossing over to ruffle Ted’s hair. 

 

Eliot’s heart tightened at the name. Margo. He still missed her, missed her every single day. But there was no way to contact her. They wouldn’t arrive at Fillory for years. “We need to write Margo a letter,” he said. “About?”

 

“The key,” Quentin said simply. “When we solve this, we have to get it to her somehow.” 

 

“And we’re doing that with a letter?” he asked. “How?”

 

“We go into town,” Quentin suggested. “Once we get the key, we go into town and leave it with a letter for her. A… A wedding present for the High Queen.”

 

“A wedding present,” Eliot said skeptically but it dawned on him after a few moments. “It’s gonna sit there a long time,” he said. 

 

Quentin nodded. “I know. But it’s the only way to get it to her.” 

 

Eliot didn’t have to think too long before he realized that Quentin was right. Margo needed the key they’d - hopefully - eventually get from the Mosaic and it was really the only way they could ensure Margo would end up with it. If they assured the poor shopkeeper who would be entrusted with their package that it was for the Queen years later, it would get there. Quite a few people in nearby towns believed Eliot and Quentin to be some sort of reclusive gods. 

 

“We’re going to have to solve this thing, first,” Eliot said. 

 

Before Quentin could answer, Ted cried out, “I did it!” In his hands was a peach, peeled perfectly. 

 

-12-

 

Ted was leaving. He was going into town, to the castle. He wanted to be an architect or a painter, something artistic. He wanted to learn magic more than the magic his parents had taught him. He wanted to build a family of his own. The parent in Eliot - which was a phrase he never believed he’d actually think - hurt at the idea of the boy he and Quentin had raised being so far away but he knew birds had to leave the nest at some point. He and Quentin had been flying for years and now it was Ted’s turn. 

 

“Come visit soon,” Quentin told him. Eliot stood off Quentin’s shoulder, lingering and watching the exchange. 

 

“Of course,” Ted said with a bright smile. Gods, he looked so much like Quentin. But there was definitely Arielle in him, too. And that sparkle in his eye? That was Eliot. 

 

“And if we’re not here-”

 

The boy didn’t even let Quentin finish before he interrupted. “I know, Dad. I love you, too.” He stepped forward, embracing his father tightly. Eliot turned away, biting on the inside of his cheek. He was a grown man. A completely grown man. He was not going to cry. 

 

“Pops?” 

 

Ted’s voice made him turn back. He smiled softly at the outstretched arms, pulling Ted against his chest. “I love you, kid,” he said into his hair. 

 

“I know,” Ted said again. “I love you, too, Pops.”

 

Ted started through the trees, his back to them, and Eliot put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. 

 

-11-

 

Eliot’s frown deepened as he held a piece of glass in front of him, peering at his reflection in it. He shifted the glass, trying a different angle, but it didn’t help. He’d tried two more positions before Quentin came up from behind him, putting his arms around Eliot’s waist. “What’s up?” he asked curiously.

 

Eliot heaved a sigh, setting the glass down on their kitchen table. “I have gray hair,” he said, tugging on a curly lock of hair. 

 

“So what?” Quentin said, leaning up to steal a kiss. “I’ve been gray longer than you have.”

 

“I never thought I would live this long,” Eliot said truthfully. “I always thought I’d overdose before I hit 30.” 

 

“And you are,” Quentin said. 

 

“Here I am,” Eliot agreed, and there was no where else he’d rather be.

 

-10-

 

There was a deer in the forest. Eliot could see her, try as she might to blend into the trees. Eliot could see her. His heart tightened again and he spared yet another thought to Margo. His beloved Margo. He had no idea what she was doing now. Getting married, maybe. He hoped for her sake whoever he was was at least a little attractive. He sighed softly, his hands were shaking, like they had been for awhile now, as he placed a tile in the Mosaic and turned from the deer. 

 

Quentin, sitting behind him, spoke up and Eliot strained to hear him. “My grandkids?” he asked. 

 

Eliot leaned back, shaking his head slightly. “No,” he said. “Our friends. From our lives before.” 

 

Quentin was quiet for a long time, gazing off into the trees, and Eliot got the sense he could see the doe, too, even though she had long since pranced away. “I dream about them sometimes,” Quentin said finally.

 

“I hope they’re good dreams,” Eliot said. 

 

Quentin smiled faintly. “They are,” he admitted. “Some of the best.”

 

-9-

 

Eliot was tired. His body hadn’t wanted him to get up out of bed and frankly, he hadn’t wanted to push it. But Quentin had coaxed him with, “Come on, El… Let’s get you outside.” He sighed, shaking his head slightly, but let Quentin help him to his feet. He winced in pain, his hands trembling as Quentin helped him to the chair. He hadn’t been much help with the Mosaic these days. His hands didn’t work even close to as well as they used to. He couldn’t do much magic, but he didn’t find himself missing it much. He had everything he needed. 

 

“Love you, Q,” he said, his voice a little hoarse and scratchy. Quentin pressed a book into his trembling hands before leaning forward and kissing him. 

 

“I love you, too,” he said sincerely, and he started at the Mosaic. Eliot watched him for a little while but he was tired. He was so tired. He smiled softly at Quentin’s back and let his eyes flutter shut. 

 

-8-

 

Quentin hadn’t heard from Eliot in awhile, he realized after a beat. Usually he would be offering some sort of criticism on Quentin’s latest attempt at shuffling tiles around, but he hadn’t heard a word. “Eliot?” he asked, turning slowly. When he laid eyes on his best friend, his husband, his lover, his heart sank. 

 

-7-

 

“...Eliot?”

 

-6-

 

Quentin wrapped him up in one of Arielle’s quilts. It was fraying at the edges from use, but it was Eliot’s favorite. It didn’t seem right to leave him bare and it didn’t seem right to bury him with anything less than his favorite quilt. He felt a pang in his chest as he pulled the end of the blanket over Eliot’s face. 

 

He hobbled to the tool shed, digging out a shovel. The wood felt rough on his calloused palms and he couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d done this, but this time, he was alone. This time-

 

His train of thought was interrupted with a slight  _ chink _ as his shovel hit something in the dirt. Frowning, he dropped the shovel and slowly crouched down. Quentin parted the dirt with his hands and found that the object his shovel had struck was a gold tile. A missing tile. His chest tightened with the thought that maybe this was it. This was the thing they had been looking for all these years.

 

For the first time, the empty expanse of the Mosaic seemed inviting. Quentin placed the faded gold tile in the center and he started to think. The beauty of all life wasn’t something tangible. It wasn’t an image they could construct with 784 tiles in 15 colors. The impossibility of the Mosaic was the beauty of it. They weren’t supposed to create the beauty of all life. They were supposed to live it. The only way they could have found this tile was to live and die here together. 

 

Quentin was stirred from his musings when the key emerged from the sand. He bent down and picked it up but he couldn’t feel joy at the prospect that his life’s work was finally done. He couldn’t feel anything because Eliot was gone. He couldn’t feel anything until a young, childlike voice that he hadn’t heard in years spoke. 

 

“Did you solve the Mosaic?” Jane Chatwin asked. 

 

Quentin swallowed, his voice cracking as he tried to speak. “With a friend,” he said softly. “We solved it together.”

 

-5-

 

When the old man asked Jane to help him take down a letter, she didn’t say no. She couldn’t say no. He had given her the very thing she needed to help her brother and it was such a simple request. The old man led her into the little cottage, holding the door open for her. “All of my paper is here,” he said. He was shaking slightly as he pulled out an old piece of parchment and ink, holding it out to her. She took a seat at his table, adjusting her cap and setting the key beside her as she took up the pen and ink. “Are you ready?” she asked him. 

 

The old man took a deep breath and began to speak. “It’s to Margo,” he said, pausing before he amended, “Bambi. It’s to Bambi.” She carefully took down the rather odd-sounding name, pausing to wait for more dictation. “I arranged for this to be delivered the day of your wedding, way, way in advance. Long story.”

 

Jane couldn’t help but feel a bit badly for him, as confused as she was about the contents of the letter. All of it seemed rather odd. Weddings and time travel and quests. She did understand quests. That was the one part she did understand. When she was finished, she sealed the letter, writing  _ Bambi  _ in delicate script on the front. 

 

“Could you do one more thing?” the old man asked. 

 

“Of course,” Jane said, and she watched as he crossed the kitchen to a basket of peaches. “Take this into town. The courier’s. Make sure They both get to her.”

 

“Of course,” Jane said again. She kissed him on the cheek, took the basket, and left the cottage wondering about the curious man it contained. 

 

-4-

 

“We did it, Eliot,” Quentin said softly, sinking down onto the ground beside Eliot covered in the quilt. “I got the key. We got the key. You were the beauty of all life.”

 

-3-

 

The clock loomed in front of them, large and impossible. The lack of a keyhole was concerning, but Eliot finally felt smart because he knew how to fix it. He knew how to solve this part of the puzzle. “It’s chain-wound,” he said, and he had to suppress a smile at the look on Quentin’s face. “I took an elective in horomancy,” he offered by way of an explanation and he was proud he could contribute something.

 

But before his brilliance could be properly useful, a raspy voice croaked from behind them.  _ At castle. Getting married. _

 

Eliot whipped around, frowning at the rabbit sitting on the table. They were Fillorian. He knew because he’d used them. So it had to br from Margo. But it didn’t make sense. Getting married? “Does that sound like Margo?” he asked. Quentin didn’t have a decent answer either until the rabbit spoke again.

 

_ Need help now, dickwads.  _

 

The situation was serious, very serious, but Eliot couldn’t help but smile. “Definitely Bambi. Okay, we need to find a way to get there.” He couldn’t leave his best friend, soulmate, alone. Eliot turned the key over in his hands, frowning. “Do you think the key can create a portal to Fillory somehow?”

 

Luckily, it did. Inserting the key into the chain-wound clock popped open the doors and filled the room with the crisp, clean air of the outside. 

 

Unluckily, the key fell out. Eliot heaved a deep sigh, turning slightly towards Quentin. “Go time,” he said, shrugging. “Guess this leg of the quest is you and me.” He held his hand out to Quentin who took it but before they could step through the doorway, a loud female voice from behind them stopped them.

 

“Wait! You bitches looking for these?”

 

Eliot whipped around, his eyes widening slightly. He felt a deep weight lift from his chest as he slowly approached her. He felt like it had been so, so much longer since he’d last seen her that it actually was. Margo dropped her arm, slowly crossing towards him, too. “Fuck,” she whispered. “That entrance line was the only thing keeping me going through 6 feet of blood and corpse.”

 

“Bambi,” he said softly. “Hey.” He pulled her into his arms, close against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Gods, he’d missed her. He’d missed her so, so much. 

 

“And I swore I wouldn’t do this,” Margo said, her voice muffled by Eliot’s chest as she softly started crying. Eliot didn’t mind because he was crying, too.

 

-2-

 

Relaxing in the cottage with Margo and Quentin was nice. It felt calm, peaceful, normal. Something they hadn’t had in such a long time. But Eliot wasn’t complaining. This was perfect. Jesus, it had been so long since he’d been able to just sit down and have a drink with his two favorite people. Eliot swallowed a mouthful of his wine, heaving a sigh. 

 

“I mean, I can't believe we died. Sort of weird. Sad, right?” Quentin said. Margo had told them to contents of the letter future Quentin had sent her. They had died then, apparently. They’d lived long, full lives and then they’d died. 

 

“But we didn't die,” Eliot pointed out. “It was an alternate timeline and one that we never have to live now.” 

 

But it was kind of sad. Eliot was curious about what that life, a life with Quentin in Fillory, would’ve been like. 

 

“We should probably get back,” Margo said, taking the rest of her glass like a shot. Eliot rose, offering one arm to Margo and the other to Quentin. 

 

“Shall we?” He said. 

 

Margo took his arm, smiling. “We shall,” she said and she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. 

 

Quentin moved to take Eliot’s arm but Margo cut him off. “Not today,” she said. “Come here.” 

 

“Um,” Quentin stammered but Margo didn’t give him a choice. She looped his arm through hers. “Missed you, too, nerd,” she said. 

 

Eliot leaned over, pressing a kiss to the side of Margo’s head. “Missed you, bitch,” he said. 

 

“Missed you, too, bitch.”

 

-1-

 

Eliot was already not very fond of Margo’s new husband. He looked like he was actually 13 years old. But at least, he thought, she got a lot of presents. Margo did like getting presents. “Well, at least you guys got to loop out of your shitty past. I’m stuck with mine,” Margo complained. 

 

Eliot hesitated before he spoke, hoping their past hadn’t been that shitty. “We are not leaving you alone with this,” he promised. He squeezed her hand again. She leaned over, kissing him on the cheek before pulling away, telling him she was going to get some rest. He held onto her hand as long as possible until she wandered away. He shifted his gaze to Quentin who was carefully studying one of Margo’s presents. It was a letter he’d taken from a basket of peaches. Eliot took a peach, absentmindedly thinking that Margo wouldn’t care before trailing after Quentin. 

 

They took a seat on the stone steps behind Margo’s arch before Eliot took a bite of the peach. He pulled back, frowning. He had a sudden thought of teaching a child the proper way to peel a peach with magic. And then he felt a warm body on his left and his right. Magic was coursing through his body. He pulled the fruit back, frowning at it. “Deja vu,” he whispered. 

 

“Peaches and plums,” Quentin said quietly and Eliot could hear someone else saying it, too. A woman. 

 

“Peaches and plums,” he said. “Peaches and plums…” Electricity sparked on his skin and his hair stood on end. He  _ remembered _ . He remembered Arielle and peaches and plums and fucking Quentin senseless on the Mosaic and living in the cottage in Fillory and sleeping together and Ted and the peaches and plums and peaches and plums and  _ peaches and plums.  _

 

“I got so old,” he said softly. 

 

“You died,” Quentin said with the same awe in his voice. He remembered, too. 

 

“I died,” Eliot repeated. “And you had a wife.” He swallowed hard again, meeting Quentin’s eyes. He remembered everything. He remembered loving him. He remembered being with him. “And we had a family.”

 

“How do we remember that?” Quentin asked. 

 

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. He didn’t know but he didn’t care. He had loved someone and someone had loved him and that someone was  _ Quentin _ .

 

“It was sort of beautiful,” Quentin said, and Eliot had to agree. He had never said anything more true. 

**Author's Note:**

> I ended this before The Confrontation bc I wanted it to end happy. I may continue someday tho


End file.
